Overcoming Gravity
by Kedd
Summary: A chance encounter on the sidewalks of Washington. S/J.


**Overcoming Gravity**

**Author:** Kedd  
**Rating:** Teen  
**Summary:** A chance encounter on the sidewalks of Washington. S/J.  
**Disclaimer:** Stargate: SG-1 is not, has never been, and (sadly) will never be mine.  
**Completed:** July 2, 2008.

* * *

When she sees him for the first time in years (walking casually down the sidewalk, dress blues tailored to his lean frame, medals glinting on his chest, cover shading those glorious eyes but leaving the familiar smirk exposed) longing explodes through her body. The drop of her stomach, the sudden dryness in her mouth, the thrilling shiver in her limbs – it reminds her of her first time on a roller coaster (before flying jets and alien ships made roller coasters seem pathetic), of the moment when you crest the top of the tallest rise and brace yourself for the inevitable plummet, knowing there is nothing you can do to stop, no turning back, that whatever measures you take are pointless tokens of resistance.

She's always been one of the people who would throw up her arms, tilt back her head and scream as her hair streamed behind her and her body succumbed to the awesome forces of gravity.

And then she realizes that she's comparing her attraction to Jack O'Neill to the force of gravity and even as she wonders what this says about her, him, them, her focus snaps back to the sunny afternoon on a Washington sidewalk, and the glorious sight of Lieutenant General Jack O'Neill in his dress blues. It only takes her a second after that to notice that _he _has noticed _her._ Or, at least, he knows that _someone_ is watching him. It fills her with a sensation of safety and comfort, knowing that although it has been years since he's been in the field his instincts are as sharp as ever. Even as she finishes the thought, smiling faintly (how could she have doubted him?), she sees him discover just _who_ is staring at him and has the amusing pleasure of seeing his stroll falter infinitesimally as he loses his stride and switches directions.

As he approaches her the rhythm of his walk changes. He's not hesitant, exactly, nor is he reluctant, but there's an obvious tension in his frame, a sort of battle-readiness, and her stomach turns once again as she realizes that it's come to this: two not-strangers, but not-quite-friends, with an indelible attraction, and a hell of a history between them, meeting by chance on a sidewalk. And yet, she knows he is as incapable of turning back as she is. It's gravity, after all.

And then, he's in front of her. And it seems sudden, but she's been watching his steady approach, one mass drawn to another, and she thinks that maybe it was the acceleration that threw her off, because, of course, gravity causes objects to accelerate as it draws them in, but he's there, and he's stopped, and there's barely a body's width of space between them, and she wonders what force is in play that enabled him to stop his motion, and then she's looking into those eyes, once so familiar, still with an incredible pull, and the physics is lost in his gaze.

(He's always had the ability to break the science down, she thinks.)

"Carter."

And his voice is how she remembers it, how she has always heard it, how she dreams of it. And her name, on his tongue, _his_ name for _her_, is filled with that same lilt, the same drawl, the same affection, and tenderness, and authority, and familiarity, and she has to respond in kind, although, really, you'd think they'd be past this by now, and she just knows he's going to say something about it, because, in spite of everything that's gone between them, she still knows him – "Sir."

And she watches the tiny quirk of his lips, and knows that he was equally as certain of how she'd respond (as if there was any question), but she isn't bothered by her predictability, if anything she's reassured by it, because it means that maybe they haven't changed as much as they _think_ they have, as they should have, as the world has, and that is an even greater relief than the realization that you can take the soldier out of the battlefield, but not the battlefield out of the soldier. And she sees him give a quick wetting of his lips as he draws breath to reply, and her body quivers in anticipation of the request she knows is coming.

"Carter," and the way he drawls her name is so endearing, so entreating, so Jack, that she wonders how she ever resisted this man, "Is it really necessary to stick to the formalities? Couldn't you, just for once—"

"Jack."

And she knows she's broken the pattern, the set routine of all the previous times they've had this conversation, and she watches those eyes widen, the eyebrows rise with surprise, picks up the brief twitch in his fingers (and, oh, how she's missed his never-motionless hands), and she feels a surge of delight in the fact that maybe, just maybe, she's not as predictable as she thinks she is, and then the worry hits, because what if he wanted predictable, what if he wanted to keep denying this force between them, what if whatever repulsive force caused him to stop with space still between them has become strong enough to overcome the attraction between them –

But then – oh, glorious then – his face lights up with a full smile, the likes of which are so rare to see on Jack O'Neill and which never fails to make her knees weak with lust, and she can't help but repeat herself, her voice lower, softer, drawing him in that little bit more, "Jack."

And then he's there, touching her, his hands cupping her face, his oddly curved thumbs stoking ever-so-lightly over her cheekbones, his head tilting to the side as he slowly leans in ensuring his cover won't be in their way, and his lips are touching hers, and she's over the hill, free-falling down, down, down, the wild joy of speed, and freedom, and wind, and flight enveloping her body, and her hands have to come up and clutch onto him, but that doesn't help because all of a sudden it's not a roller coaster, but a fighter jet, and she can feel the G-forces pressing against her as she dives and she never wants it to stop, she wants to plummet forever, and she thinks that maybe she should be scared but knows, too, that she shouldn't because if there's one thing she knows about Jack O'Neill it's that he'll never let her fall, and so she embraces the sensation even as she embraces him, desperately, wholeheartedly, and she lets go of the things which have come between them, letting them float up behind her (knowing, still, that they will all come back down later, but unable to find it within herself to care) and she falls, falls, falls…

And when they pull up they're both breathing heavily, and his cover is askew, and her lips are swollen from the desperation and emotion of his kisses, and his uniform is rumpled from where she's been clutching it, and she knows her hair and clothes are likely mussed up as well, but none of that matters, and Jack's still the best thing she's ever seen on this sidewalk, with the sunlight emphasizing the golden tones of his tan and the faint pinkness in his cheeks, the silver of his hair and the blackness of his eyes. And suddenly, it's too brilliant, too great a contrast, too quick a change, and she leans into his steady presence, bending her head down to tuck it under his chin, against his chest, and although his heartbeat is rapid it's steady, and solid, and just as reassuring as the muscles beneath her cheek and the tight arms wrapped around her back.

And then his head has dipped down to her shoulder, and his lips are pressed against her neck as he nuzzles her hair, and she can feel his breaths gliding delicately over her skin, and she knows he's about to speak, and she's glad because, for once, she has no idea what to say.

"This was unexpected."

And the sheer absurdity of that remark, the magnitude of his understatement, the bemusement in his tone, and (underneath it all) the quiet happiness she hears, causes her to give a watery chuckle, and tilt her head further so that her stray tears fall cleanly onto his jacket.

And when his hand gently cups the back of her head, she feels the strength to speak once more, and turns her head so she can talk directly into his ear. "You're wrong."

And she feels him tense, and draw away, and she lets him, because she knows that they need to see each other, to read each other, to actually reveal themselves more than they ever have in the past, but she doesn't let him completely withdraw his hands, and she keeps hers firmly settled on his body, because she just can't bear to part completely, it's been too long, and the forces between them are too strong, or maybe her will's too weak, but either way, she needs to touch him, even as she says this.

But, he beats her to it, and in typical Jack O'Neill fashion, tries to lighten the situation. "Not that I'm surprised to hear it, but why, exactly, am I wrong?"

And she takes a breath, and then another, and then begins to explain how, it really should have been expected, inevitable even, because she's loved him for years, and been attracted to him for years more, and let's not forget those other alternate universes, but even if they didn't exist, even if she had never heard about them, it wouldn't have mattered, because she's known for a while now that there was only one man for her, and despite everything – everything she did, he did, everything she tried (and the name Pete floats between them, unspoken, but still heard), everything that should have broken them, all the distance, all the time, -- none of it matters, because there's still only the one man for her, and he's it, and if he thinks they could possibly still, maybe, make a go of it, if he thinks there's even the slightest chance he'd be willing to try, and god knows, she knows that she isn't deserving of it, but if he could, could…

And then his finger is over her lips, and his eyes are smiling into hers, and she's fallen silent, waiting, hoping.

And then his lips have replaced his finger, but this kiss is steadying, and she keeps her eyes open, looking into his, and his arms surround her, enfold her, and she feels as solid as a rock, immovable, only slowly being eroded by the forces of desire that lap at her surface, but the kiss breaks before that, and then he's speaking back to her, about how he knows, and it's alright, because, damnit Carter, it's as much his fault as hers, 'cause he's loved her just as long, and been attracted to her for longer still, and desired her even before that, but he's never been able to speak up, because of ranks, and time, and distance, but all he wants is for her to be happy, and if she thinks there's even the slightest chance that she could still be happy with him (a beaten up, worn out, old soldier with tons of baggage, and she gives him a reproving squeeze on his shoulders for his self-deprecation) then he'll take it. And then they're kissing once again, even though she only caught about one word in three, but that's okay, because she caught the important ones, and she really doesn't want to stop, but in their enthusiasm his cover falls to the ground, and it's only as he bends to pick it up that they realize that they've been clutched in each other's arms, kissing, on a sidewalk on a sunny afternoon in Washington with him still in uniform, and she blushes, and to her delight, he does too (even if it's not as obvious as it is against her fair skin), but then he's grasping her hand and tugging her beside him, and they're walking somewhere, she doesn't know where, but she trusts him, and is content to just be _there_ with _him_ in a way she's never been able to enjoy before, so she lets him lead her where he wills, the warmth of his fingers encircling her hand steadying her even as the giddy pleasure she feels at holding Jack O'Neill's hand threatens to make her float away.

And then they're out of the afternoon sun, and in the dim light of an apartment, and he's removed his cover, but that's as far as he gets before she has him pressed up against the wall, her lips on his, his hands on her, his medals digging awkwardly into her chest even as she struggles to wedge her hands into the space between them and remove his jacket, but she's having a hard time because they are fused so tightly (and for all she wants to be rid of his metals she _likes _the fact that they are joined that tight), so it isn't until he lets out a low groan and draws his head back from hers that she makes any progress. (Although, she thinks, in hindsight, the progress may have happened because he exposed new spots on his neck that she desperately wanted to get to, desperately wanted to lick and suck and nibble, giving her greater incentive to pull back from him ever so slightly.) So she works to quickly remove his jacket, even as she feels her own demin jacket fall to the ground, and she returns her attention to his neck using her hands to pull free his tie and undo the buttons on the collar of his shirt.

She's momentarily distracted from her task by the feel of his hands on her back. They aren't as rough against her skin as she had always imagined them to be, but then she had fantasized about him for years while he was still working in the field, and his hands would be big and strong and callused and smelling faintly of gun powder. And while they are lacking some of the roughness she had imagined, feeling their strength against her skin, his thumbs gently rubbing a path along either side of her spine more than makes up for the difference. As he moves his hands up higher, she refocuses her attention on his shirt, working desperately on all the buttons only to be disappointed as she finds a white issue undershirt instead of the tanned skin she longed for. It's impossible for her disappointment to last, however, as she rubs her cheek against the soft cloth, the warmth of his body permeating the thin fabric. She feels his warmth, hears his heart beating, smells his scent, and she has to pause in her exploration temporarily, overwhelmed by his presence, just to let it all sink in. It seems impossible that after years of dreaming about this very thing she's finally here, in his arms.

But then Jack's lips have found that spot behind her ear, and his skilled hands have managed to remove her shirt, and even as he works his way down the side of her neck to bite gently at the juncture of her neck and shoulder his fingers are cupping her breasts, stroking lightly over the sensitive skin, teasing her with fleeting caresses that stimulate but don't satisfy. She astonishes herself by letting out a low growl as she pulls off his undershirt, forcing his hands temporarily away from her body. The separation is swiftly forgotten as he pulls her tight against his chest, her skin warm against his, his lips hot against hers, and it's only as he flips her, pinning her against the wall, that the coolness of the paint behind her rouses her from her heated explorations of Jack's mouth and alerts her to the fact that they're making out in Jack's entranceway.

Her chuckle breaks them apart, warm air puffing softly against the stubble on his face.

"What?" he asks, the question so familiar in other circumstances seeming incongruous here, with Jack's thigh wedged solidly between hers, his hardness pressing firmly into her hip. Still, she can't help but smile slightly and the quirked lips she receives in response causes her heart to lighten even further.

"Nothing," she says, but prompted by the arching of his eyebrow, she elaborates. "It's just – a hallway?"

And the widening of his smile indicates his comprehension even before he nuzzles into her neck and replies, "Trust me, Carter, the number of times I wanted to make out with you in a storage closet makes this fairly apropos." And she can't help but laugh at that, Jack's unique brand of logic having its own kind of sense. Before her laughter is even finished, Jack's kissing her again, his tongue probing deeply into her mouth, battling with hers and inflaming her desire farther as she gets to taste him more fully. He tastes of coffee, and mint, and something faintly sweet, and she wonders how he's managed to stay in such good shape if he's been keeping up his pie-and-cake eating habits and decides to ask him – later, when she's not busy removing his belt and his hands aren't cupping her cheeks, holding her head in place while his fingers bury themselves in her hair and his thumbs stroke her cheekbones.

Somehow, before she even really realizes it, they're stripped of their clothing, and have found their way to Jack's bedroom, into his bed, and they're together skin on skin, and it's glorious, and the falling sensation that came over her before is happening again, but this time it's better, oh, so much better, because this time they're falling together, so even if they crash, they'll crash together, and that thought's reassuring and exhilarating and comforting and crazy and it brings a grin to her face that causes Jack to smile in response, and she can't help but feel that he's reading her as he always does, because then he leans down and kisses her thoroughly, and that's all it takes before she really is falling, except it feels like she's soaring, and Jack is too, and as she relaxes into his embrace she thinks that (after all the obstacles they've faced together through the years) it's only fitting that they overcome gravity together too.

End.


End file.
